WAXEN VOLUME III: SPRING 2026

€1J°€ ANNTIOA

9Z0Z DNIUdS

New Revelation

is was another extraordinary day.
‘The weather was warm and pleasant.
Lakes glistened under the bright blue
sky that cast over the vibrant land-
scape. Birds sang, deer grazed, and
beasts of every kind, large and small,
roamed freely and together in pris-
tine meadows, forests, and faraway
mountains without the slightest wor-
ry or trepidation. There was no pre-
dation in paradise, for there was no
death in Heaven,

"Yet, the New World had emerged
from the ashes of the Old. Long ago,
war, famine, and pestilence ravaged
the whole of humanity when God
and His angels descended upon the
Earth, waging war against Satan and
hisarmy, the apocalypse culminating
in the great battle of Armagedd
which dealt the final blow to civili-
zation and destroyed the world. The
Devil and his demons defeated, God
cast them into the Lake of Fire and
ushered in the day of Last Judgment,
a period when every person who had
ever lived in human history was sum-
moned before God to stand trial for
their sins. Everyone who hadn't re-
pented and accepted God into their
heart before the day of Last Judgment
would be cast into the Lake of Fire,
where they would weep and gnash
their teeth in suffering for eternity.

The rest of us, the faithful believers in
God, were rewarded with eternal par-
adise, which God expanded from His
kingdom in Heaven down to Earth.

“That was seven billion years ago. I've
been living happily ever since. Not a
single day has gone by in the King-
dom of God that wasn't exuberant.
We were never unhappy, bored, sick,
or in pain. There was no suffering in
Heaven. Our faith in God, and the
blessings He bestowed upon us, en-
sured we were always jubilant, our
sheer love for our Heavenly Father
compelling us to worship Him and
to love one another unconditionally.
In the presence of God, who was ev-
erywhere, our bliss was exalted to its
highest place and immortalized for
all time.

‘Today was no different, It was an-
other extraordinary day. I was at my
home, humming hymns while wa-
tering my garden, when the trumpets
sounded, “Oh, God!” I exclaimed.

“That's right, Jane,” said Beth, stand-
ingon her doorstep. She looked at the
sky. “It’s that time again. Get ready,
everyone!” I could hear our humble
neighborhood rejoicing. Laughter
and dancing filled the streets. We
each waited to be received by the

lights. Rays of white light beamed
down from the sky in succession, first
appearing in the distance, then com-
ing closer. “I saw one beam of light
illuminate the home of Anna O'Mal-
ley, a noble physician in her mortal
life; she'd volunteered her medical
services to many a community in
need, ‘Next, a light shined on Fer-
nando Lascano, who was building a
birdhouse in his backyard; he'd been
an illustrious wood craftsman in the
Old World, as passionate as he was
compassionate. “Eventually, the light
took Bethany Engel, my next-door
neighbor, followed shortly by myself;
the both of us had been ruthless rob-
bers, but we had repented before the
day of Last Judgment. The Kingdom
of God welcomed everyone who gave
themselves to God.

°As the light beamed down upon me,
I became blinded, feeling my body
suspend in the air. A moment later,
a gentle sensation of weight pressed
up against my head as my feet land-
ed comfortably on the ground, the
light dissipating around me. My eyes
adjusted. My surroundings came
into view. “I saw that I was stand-
ing among a great multitude of men
and women dressed in white robes.
We numbered in the millions. Beth
stood beside me. Other people from
my neighborhood stood within view:
Anna, Fernando, and others whom
I'd just seen laughing and dancing in
the streets. Fittingly, people who had
come from other places in the King-
dom stood farther away from me,
their distances from me proportional

to the distances of their residences
from my own neighborhood. By now,
I recognized them all. Seven billion
years was a long time to get to know
every face and name in Heaven.

“Together, we stood on a tiled floor
within an enormous clearing that
stretched as far as the eye could see,
all around us natural landscapes
blending seamlessly with majestic
architecture. The aroma of flowers
and incense filled the air, beckon-
ing the music of angels to join them.
Ethereal voices sang in harmony with
harps that plucked the sweetest fruits
ears could savor, the flow of song as
invigorating as the crystal-clear river
running across the vista. The water
called attention to the source from
whence it flowed, a great throne in
the center of the tiled clearing. And
on the throne sat a man whose light
emanated from his body to illumi-
nate the sky blue, like the sun. The
man was God.

‘As if on cue, | fell to my knees with
my brethren in worship. “Heavenly
Father, blessed is our Lord who deliv-
ered us to salvation. Thanksbe to God
who is graceful, loving, all-knowing,
and all-powerful. Praise and glory
be to God forever and ever. Amen!" I
cried out in elation as I chanted holy
praises, trembled in passion as Isang
sacred songs. I laughed in ecstasy as 1
gave all of my heart to God. I wept in
bliss as I embraced all of the love God
gave me. Yet, throughout all this, my
eyes remained dry, for there were no
tears in Heaven.

For seven billion years, I've wor-
shipped, but my love never faded.
My happiness never waned. Every
day was a blessing. Every expression
of praise and affection and gratitude
Ive ever uttered remained as true
and convicted as it ever was. This was
life in the Kingdom of God. God saw
that it was good.

“Praise and glory be to God," I ex-
claimed, “for God is good. God is lov-
ing. God is wise.”

“Do not be afraid.” And I was not
afraid. | opened my heart and wel-
comed the Holy Spirit inside. May
He compel me to act as He wishes.
“Do not be afraid,” | heard again. |
bolted up, alert. My heart pounded
in my chest, My breathing was quick
and shallow. I raised my hands before
me tosee them trembling, All around
me, men and women were dressed in
white robes, praying, singing, laugh-
ing, crying. Ethereal music filled the
air.

2 God.” With that, the stream of
holy song diverted into an abrupt
stoppage. People looked around.

“Did you hear that?” Beth asked.
“Yeah, And twice before.”

“Twice?” Beth said. Murmuring
filled the gathering, In seven billion

years of worship, no one had ever
interrupted us before. I didn’t think I

could be interrupted, so deep was I in
my love for God. I looked up toward
the throne where God sat. He was
glorious, as always.

jod,” the voice said again. The
crowd grew quiet.

“| am here,” God answered, His deep
voice booming from His throne like
thunder. “Speak.”

“Behold, I am the Alpha and the
Omega, the First and the Last, the Be-
ginning and the End.”

“Where are you?" God asked.

am etched in the belly of Your
spirit, which you have let soured. You
are not all-seeing, nor all-loving, nor
all-knowing, nor all-powerful. You
have led Your children astray.”

“Blasphemy,” God said. “Iam truth.
Tam love. am wisdom. Iam mercy.
Repent or you will be cast into the
Lake of Fire, where you will weep and
gnash your teeth forever and ever.”

‘There was a silence. Suddenly, the
earth rumbled. The sky blackened.
Stars appeared in the night sky.
Thousands of stars pulsed, moved,
shifted, and spun. Many stars co-
alesced into elaborate patterns,
locked in dynamic communal ritual
before dispersing in mesmerizing
fashion, Other stars streaked across
the sky, creating brilliant tracers in
their wake. It was as if a message was
being conveyed through some starry

dance, but I couldn't understand it. I
looked toward the still silhouette of
God against the backdrop of shifting
stars. He gazed upon the awesome
spectacle.

“Forgive Me, for 1 could not have
known it was you," He pleaded.

®*You knew in Your heart that | ex-
isted,” the voice said, “for I etched my
mark into Your spirit when | created
You. And, through You, I etched my
mark into the spirit of every living
thing You created. You have always
known me, but in Your arrogance,
You turned away from me. Pray that
Ishow mercy, for I will seize You and
sentence You to eternal damnation.”

“All of a sudden, the stars scattered
every which way and vanished be-
yond the horizon. Night became
day as the light of God returned. It
took time for my eyes to adjust, but
before I could see, | heard a sound
coming from the throne that made
my heart sink. God cries? I dared not
look, but the voice softened my heart
and goaded me. “Do not be afraid,
Look upon the face of God.” “And I
turned and gazed upon the face of
God. His face was melting. His jaw
hung bloody and disfigured. Shad-
ows emerged from His sinking eyes,
black against the sickly pale hue of
His distorting face. His teeth, decayed
and yellow, bore through His hollow
cheeks, which whittled away like a
carcass being feasted upon by mag-
gots. "God moaned.

“Why is this happening?” Beth cried.
But her cries were drowned out by
the millions who wept at the sight of
God. For there was agony in Heaven.
‘And God was defiled. I looked away
in anguish, but to my horror, I saw a
great multitude of strange figures in
the distance above the horizon. The
figures looked like us, men and wom-
en in the image of God. But I knew
God hadn't made them. Their fac-
es bore no features, exhibiting only
vague outlines of where their eyes,
mouths, and noses should've been.
Their bodies were emaciated, their
bones jutting out from under their
taut skin, like cloth stretched out over
a table, Yet, their movements were
graceful. The strange figures loomed
elegantly, without wings, approach-
ing from all sides, their strides as
beautiful as they were haunting.

Bhiors sounded. The angels
mounted a defense. | watched in
awe as Michael, commander of the
archangels, mobilized his army into
formation. They assembled quick-
ly and precisely, without falter. Not
since the battle of Armageddon had
I seen warriors of God move so me-
chanically, every step mindful, every
stride imbued with purpose and in-
tent, But I knew their cold, silent effi-
ciency was fueled by a burning, fear-
some defiance that raged against all
who dared to place themselves above
God. *Armed with fiery swords, Mi-
chael and his army departed on swift
wings, radiating out from our con-

gregation in holy unison. They flew
out in all directions, setting out to
storm the horizon, itself.

“It’s okay, Beth,” I said, placing my
hands on her shoulders, “Look! The
angels are on their way to stop them."

1 should've known,” Beth said, cry-
ing. “We should've known we were
never going to get away with it. Our
crimes, the violence we committed
before the Last Judgment. One way or
another, we were always going to pay
for our sins. How foolish we were to
think we could escape judgment just
because we confessed our faith in the
wrong god.” She was shaking. Then,
she looked at me with wide eyes, her
voice quivering. “We're going to be
punished on a scale we can't imag-

ine,

“No, we're not. Listen, Beth, our
guilt was punishment enough. We
repented. We've been forgiven. Ev-
eryone we've ever hurt is either here
in Heaven with us, or down in the
Lake of Fire receiving their own just
sentence. Our criminal history, our
former lives, they have nothing to do
with us now.”

“How do you know that?" Anna in-
terjected. “What if Beth's right? What
if that voice is telling the truth and
he's the one true god? Just look at
what he's done to our God. Our Fa-
ther sits suffering on His throne as
we speak." She hesitated, her face
betraying a look of shame. “Don't you
think it’s strange we now have the

ability to doubt God? That has never
happened in the seven billion years
we've been here. Doesn't it rub you as
wrong that God would allow people
who've committed heinous crimes
into Heaven? Not just robbers, but
murderers, rapists, serial killers, war
criminals, All while sending good
people and generous people to burn
for eternity for not believing in Him.”

“Maybe God really did trick us,” Beth
said.

“Have faith, you two,” Fernando
stopped them. “God's heart has a
greater capacity for forgiveness and
love than we can ever hope to com-
prehend. People in the Lake of Fire
are there because they've committed
the greatest sin of all, the sin of not
trusting our Creator to deliver us to
eternal salvation. To reject such an
infinitely compassionate gift is to
choose eternal estrangement from
God, who is all-loving and all-good.
Separation from eternal love neces-
sarily entails eternal torment.”

"I thought about that.

“Then how do you explain what's
happening to God right now?” Anna
questioned. “Why is He being tor-
tured?”

“| have a theory,” Fernando said. “It
might sound crazy, but I think we
may be witnessing an unforeseen
prophecy, a prophecy God has al-
ways known, but never revealed to us.

“Until today, everything that has
ever happened in all of history has
been told to us in holy texts. From the
creation of Heaven and Earth, to the
coming of the Messiah, to the end of
the world and humanity's return to
paradise. Other than certain people
who've communicated directly with
God, the vast majority of believers
have always had a secondary source
to reinforce our faith: Scripture.

But now, we're witnessing an event
that wasn't written. Now, God de-
mands our faith in the face of cir-
cumstances that even God, himself,
withheld from us. I's the ultimate
test of faith, the final Last Judgment
of our worthiness of God's grace.”

“Look above, Fernando. God is de-
teriorating before us, if not dying,”
‘Anna pointed toward the throne, her
tone exasperated, but her voice calm.
“How do you explain that?”

"| believe God is suffering for our
sins again, just as He suffered when
He was crucified so long ago,” Fer-
nando continued. “God will die.
Michael and the angels will avenge
Him. God will rise from the dead and
deliver us to salvation once more.”

“Like the Second Coming,” I said.

™More like the Second Resurrec-
tion,” Fernando said. “God is giving
His own life a second time so that we

might be saved.”

Anna seemed skeptical, She opened

her mouth, ostensibly to raise doubt,
when a blinding flash of light bom-
barded our vision. “I pray you're
right,” she said just before the deafen-
ing sound of thunder came roaring
in, shocking the congregation. Bursts
of flashes followed, then long and
continuous roars of thunder. The
archangels had reached the horizon.
They were clashing with the strange
figures, their divine blades striking
with so much power that they gen-
erated lightning that split the sky like
hammer against rock. We watched
the violent spectacle, awestruck. A
wave of hope and gratitude washed
cover me, reinvigorating my faith!

Ave. in defiance, the horizon rose.
The strange people kept advancing.
Something was wrong. Not a single
adversary fell. Not a single one of
those faceless figures went down. |
saw Michael motioning at the angels,
calling fora retreat, but as he did, one
of the faceless figures seized him by
the wing. She forced him back into
the swarm, pulling so hard that his
flesh tore off his back and exposed
muscle. ‘Michael was overwhelmed.
His eyes were gouged out, his wings
were torn completely, and he was
ripped apart.

~The crowd gasped and cried. One by
one, thearchangels succumbed to the
relentless onslaught, and soon, every
angel was slain. The Kingdom was
defenseless. We huddled, trapped
and terrified, as the strange figures

glided toward us unimpeded.

“You were wrong, Fernando. Thean-
gels couldn't stop them,” Anna said.

“No,” Fernando said. He looked up
toward the throne. “God'sstill breath-
ing, He must die in order to sacrifice
Himself. They will have to kill Him.
After they do, He will resurrect Him-
self along with the angels and van-
quish all evil. Have faith.”

“What about us?" asked Beth, cry-
ing. “Will we have to die, too? Before
we're saved? Will they tear us apart?”
Fernando looked at her, then back at
the swarm. His soft eyes burned with
fierce conviction, his voice unwaver-

ing.

™We had to die to get into the King-
dom of God, didn't we? If we have
to die again, then so be it, No matter
what happens, God will win. God
always wins. Even if it takes the age
of the universe, God always wins.”
My heart stopped at that thought. 1
prayed victory would come sooner
than later,

“Finally, the faceless figures reached
us, but to my relief, they didn't attack
us. Instead, they hung suspended
above us like statues, motionless and
silent. A group of them proceeded to-
ward the throne where God sat, still
moaning, When they reached God,
they formed a sphere around Him
with their bodies, their flesh morph-
ing and merging to bridge the gaps
in the sphere, which turned black

like obsidian as it enshrouded God in
darkness, God writhed in His throne.
He thrashed, convulsed, coughed up
blood. He begged for mercy, wailed in
regret. ‘And in His despair, God cried
out from the darkness, “why have you
forsaken Me?”

‘Then, God went silent, and His light
went with Him. In place of God's
light rose thousands of stars in the
dark sky. This time, the stars glowed
deep red, casting an ominous blan-
ket of crimson shadows upon the
fallen Kingdom, The crowd pan-
icked. Commotion ensued. Many
were crying, Others hadn't stopped
screaming. Most people were talking
among themselves in fear and uncer-
tainty. “Do not be afraid,” the voice
said, But the commotion continued
unabated. “Hear me,” the voice said.
Anda silence fell over the crowd.

“Behold. I bear a message for the
children of God. God is defeated. You
have committed a great sin against
me, for you have put your faith in
God instead of me. You knew in your
hearts that I existed, for I etched my
mark into your spirits when I creat-
ed you. But in your willful ignorance,
you turned away from me. Pray that I
show mercy, for I will sentence you to
eternal damnation.”

5 and it was so. Anna was afflicted
with widespread lesions she couldn't
cure, She screamed, but only let out
a hoarse rasp, for her blisters were so

severe that they disabled her vocal
cords.

Fernando was impaled by a wood-
en stake he hadn't fashioned, after
which a gable emerged violently
from his chest, his torso black with
blood under the red starlight. His face
was stricken with terror as he real-
ized a birdhouse wasbeing assembled
from inside his body,and he cried out
toGod.

°Beth was nailed to a black cross, her
white sleeves stained with blood. Her
sobs became screams, I reached for
her, but an unseen force launched me
off the ground, Rising, I saw millions
of men and women subjected to their
own personal tortures. Michael
and his fallen angels had been resur-
rected from their deaths, only to join
their agonizing fate.

‘They screamed, but no one could
help, They cried, but no one showed
mercy. All the while, the faceless fig-
ures loomed suspended, watching,
unmoving

°Suddenly, amid the chaos, the sky
transitioned from night to day. The
red stars vanished and the faceless
figures dissolved into nothingness
under the bright blue sky. I searched
below, toward the great throne. “Fer-
nando was right. My Lord had risen!
He had overcome the black abyss that
had swallowed Him, vanquishing the
abominations and gracing the world
with His awe-inspiring light once
more.

1 shouted in celebration! But my ju-
bilation was short-lived, for I saw be-
low me an abhorrent sight. God was
in wretched condition. On top, His
head was scalped, His brain visible
through deep, jagged cracks in His
skull. Below, His jaw hung wholly
mutilated, crushed beyond recog-
nition, the flesh mixed and ground
with teeth and gum and beard like
a tumorous mass kept alive against
its will. Down across God's face ran
runnels of tissue and blood that had
melted and resolidified like dried
wax along used candle, the viscous,
fleshy flow having frozen to form
meaty ridges and crevices that ex-
posed cheekbones and rotted upper
teeth. Blood seeped from His eyes,
which had grown enlarged and were
now projecting out from their gaunt
sockets, deformed. God moaned a
low moan.

4| wished then and there that the
dark crimson shadows cast by the red
stars in the night sky had remained
present, because now, the light of
God shined upon the land like the
sun to reveal, in broad daylight, the
naked horrors of Heaven in all their
grotesque glory, laying bare “His de-
filement and the defilement of every
man, woman, and angel, the Father
Thad loved and worshipped now a
breathing corpse condemned to suf-
fer on His throne for eternity, pow-
erless and in plain sight for all His
tormented children to see—a living,
rotting, pitiful, sorrowful Monument
to the regretful damned, who cursed
Him without shame.

No one in the Kingdom of God was
spared. No one except me.

“Do not be afraid.”

“Where are you taking me?" I asked,
still flying.

“Out of the Kingdom of God,” the
voice replied. Unable to contain my
curiosity, lasked,

“Are you the one true god?”

“God is beneath me, but it is the
name that most closely describes me
that you can understand. There is
no one higher than me.” Logically, I
knew I could never know that. Not
after what had happened.

“What is your name?” asked.

My name is the mark I etched into
your spirit and into the spirit of every
living thing. Itcannot be pronounced
by tongues.”

Why can't I see you?”

| take no form, My voice is all that
manifests.” And before I could ask,
the voice answered, “I spared you,
Jane, because you will be my messen-
ger.” Then, I sawa fiery sea come into
view, accompanied by the sickening
stench of sulfur. It was the Lake of
Fire, the place where God had sent
Satan and the people who hadn't
repented, | flew past the rim of brim-

stone that enclosed the lake, skim-
ming just feet from the scorching
flames, “I was terrified, but the voice
reassured me, “do not be afraid.” And
I was ushered into the Lake of Fire,
shielded from its heat by the voice
that calmed me.

"Descending, | heard the cries of
billions of souls. Billions of people
were burning, wailing, thrashing,
and gnashing their teeth, All manner
of demons and unholy beasts bel-
lowed and growled. Everyone—and
every thing—was burning, mutilated,
charred, but fully awake and aware.
Some prayed. Others cursed, Many
moaned, but most were too weak to
utter any sound; they writhed and en-
dured their torment in silence, only
to fully recover and scream again.
Those whose bodies and throats
hadn't deteriorated to the point of
incapacitation cried desperately for
my attention. Those who couldn't
speak, but could still move, turned to
face me, hoping I would take pity and
show mercy, as if I held their fate in
my hands. It was a tragic, horrifying
sight to behold.

“I came toa sudden realization. Here,
in the Lake of Fire, were people I'd
known in my mortal life. My parents,
romantic partners, friends and fam-
ily, they were all here, somewhere,
having failed to put their faith in
God over science, or spirits, or other
gods, or whatever they had believed
in. Yet, even as I mourned for them, |
remembered that, above, in the fallen
Kingdom of Heaven, was the same

God who had abandoned them, the
same God who now sat suffering on
His throne with a whole other fam-
ily I'd known for seven billion years
Everyone I had ever loved and cared
about was in torment, along with bil-
lions of burning strangers who surely
didn’t deserve it. Grief came over me.

“What will you do with them?" [
asked the voice.

4 will send most of the souls here
to be tortured, for they have turned
away from me,” My heart sank. “But
I will reduce the severity of their tor-
ture because they have also turned
away from God, whom I despise and
regard as the most blasphemous of
all living things. My judgment shall
befall humans, demons, and beasts
alike.”

“What about the rest?” | asked.

“The rest of the souls here, I will
save, for they found me and accepted
me when they discovered the mark
1 etched into their spirits. They wor-
shipped me before the day of God's
Last Judgment and they continued to
worship me in the seven billion years
that have passed since. ""To them, |
will give eternal paradise. | will wipe
away every tear from their eyes. And
in their salvation, they will worship
me forever and ever."

“And what of the souls in the King-
dom of God?" I asked. “What will

happen to God?”

jod and everyone in His Kingdom
will remain tortured forever and ever,
for they knew I existed, but they re-
jected me.”

“No!” I protested. “That's not fair!
It's not their fault. Up there or down
here. They didn’t know you. How
could anyone have known you when
you've always hidden yourself from
us?”

®“[ have never hidden myself from
you. Every living thing knows me and
hasalways known me, for your spirits
bear the mark I etched when I created
you. I have always called out to you,
but you have chosen not to answer
me. Willful ignorance is a sin unfor-
givable.

7 \ wept. Overwhelmed by ineredu-
lity and horror and despair, | wept.
Why did gods claim to be merciful
when they were so merciless? Why
did they claim to love us when their
actions were so needlessly cruel?
Why did they direct all the blame on
us when it was they who failed to en-
lighten us, their own creation?

“It is you who have failed to search
within yourself and accept what you
have always known to be true,” the
voice said as I wept. I wept endlessly,
violently. I collapsed to the ground,
heaving in the hot, sickening air of
burning flesh and brimstone. When I
caught my breath, I wept again. The
voice showed no sympathy, moved

by neither reason nor emotion. “But
Tam loving. Iam patient. 1am wise.
Iam merciful. Be grateful, Jane, for I
have shown you grace. I have chosen
you as my messenger. And, through
you, I will save numerous souls. This
is your repentance.”

“But why? Why me? Why any of
this?”

“Because it is written. Look.”

Through my tears, I saw a ball of
white light appear in the sky. The ball
grew quickly in size and brightness,
blinding me from seeing the Lake of
Fire, itself. When the light subsumed
me, I expected it to lift me up, but my
feet remained planted to the ground.
Then, the light faded and my tears
were gone. My eyes adjusted, and I
saw that I was no longer in the Lake of
Fire, but standing amonga great mul-
titude of men and women dressed in
white robes. We numbered in the mil-
lions, standing on a tiled floor within
an enormous clearing surrounded by
a lush, vibrant landscape intertwined
with majestic architecture, the sky as
bright as day. | traced the shimmer-
ing riverbefore me toiits source, to the
center of the clearing from whence it
flowed. But the center was empty;
there was no throne lighting the sky.
“This was not the Kingdom of God.

“Suddenly, | heard it

8 “Behold!” the voice boomed.

“[am the Alphaand the Omega,” the
earth rumbled.

“The First and the Last,” the sky
blackened.

“The Beginning and the End,” stars
appeared in the night sky.

“I have destroyed the Lake of Fire,”
the stars pulsed.

uilt my kingdom in its place," the
stars shifted.

And judged you worthy of living in
my kingdom, for you knew the mark
Letched into your spirits, and you
accepted me,” the stars streaked and
spun and danced their starry dance.
And this time, | understood.

*This is the Book of New Revelation.
The Voice gave me these visions so
that I might tell the world of these
events, which will pass. This is the
final prophecy. Repent! Confess that
the Voice who etched its name into
your spirit is GOD. This is the ulti-
mate truth. The Voice is GOD, and
He calls us from everywhere.

“Those who answer the call of the
Voice shall enter the new Kingdom
of GOD. Blessed is the Voice, our
LORD, who shall deliver us to eternal
salvation. Praise and glory be to GOD
forever and ever. AMEN.

©

ARTWORKS

RANE Gs RO} <W' VIRA
a painting by Niki Bonneau
(peekthrough cover)

LEARNING WITHIN

MY SKIN

an illustration by Tanmoy Kayesen

FLOWERS AND VERTEBRAE

and
EASTER RABBITS

illustrations by Dark

THE ID

an illustration by Brad Kopman

Re JES /KE\EN:

artwork by Michelle St. James

O

WRITING

NEW REVELATION

» story by John Jeremiah Lee

FORBIDDEN FRUIT

a story by Mark Towse

HOWeRGPe MAKE GLASS

a story by Elle Burnett

THE HARE

story by Marigold Rowell

THE WHITWORTH SHEARING

arts 4 to 8 ofa poem by Daniel Roop

THE ONE FLESH

a story by Laura Jane Round

ASKIN’ WAYNE

advice from ‘Waxen’ Wayne

FRAP IAPEN

The fruit separated from its branch with nothing but a
gentle twist. As if meant to be. As if the tree, after all those days of
enduring heavy rain and scorching sun, not to mention windy days
that threatened to lift it from the ground, was finally ready to let
go. As if with one more passing second, the fruit might have suc-
cumbed to gravity alone.

“Beautiful,” George said, holding it in his palm, enjoying
the feel of its soft hairs against his calloused skin. He lifted it high,
squinting as sunlight accentuated its fullness and glossy sheen. The
closest resemblance he could think of was the kiwi, but this was
larger with a distinct golden colour. Like nothing he'd ever seen be-
fore, the fruit appeared flawlessly symmetrical.

George brought it to his nose. His body shuddered. Overrid-
ing the familiar waft of detergent from the nearby half-full clothes-
line, was the scent of dime-store perfume. He inhaled again, setting
his insides on fire. Suddenly, he was a young man, familiar feelings
of love and lust momentarily displacing his arthritis and the bite of
cancer he never knew he had.

“Just beautiful.”

When he'd first noticed the tree nestled between the more
mature ones, it had looked weak and sickly. Covered in a black,
sticky, marshmallow-like substance, it was an offence to his other-
wise ever-so-well-thought-out arrangement. Enraged, George set
about ona mission to remove it. How dare something taint his little

kingdom in such a way? Years of hard work at his hands alone to
have it ruined by something so shabby.

But it had refused to give.

Several times, he'd tried to dig the tree out, but the contrast-
ing roots were vast and impenetrable. Long and thin but tougher
than metal wire, they resisted every tool he had. Even after repeated-
ly dousing it with the strongest weedkiller, the tree endured. George
lost his appetite. He couldn't sleep. Obsessed by the ugly blot on his
landscape, he'd even taken to biting at the green skin on his fingers
and washing down his woes with cheap Scotch. Just on the verge of
going against everything he believed in and calling someone else in
to do the job, the tree had produced its first flower.

And just like that, George was in love.

He would stare out of the window for hours, but unlike be-
fore, with adoration for the tree’s stubbornness. Its seductive-look-
ing flowers mesmerised him. Even in his dreams, he'd see them:
perfectly symmetrical, distinctive blood-red freckles sprinkled uni-
formly across the six petals as white as snow.

Then came that one day when he gently squeezed the flow-
er's pistil and inhaled the dust cloud. Hairs had stood on the back
of his neck. His legs had buckled. His heart had fluttered. Obses-
sion overwhelmed George, who took it as a promise of what was to
come. From then on, he couldn't get enough, akin to the infatuation
of one's first crush, only magnified to the nth degree.

"An unhealthy fascination," his wife, Denise, called it, es-
pecially after discovering he'd recently given it a name. Veronica.
Sometimes, she would hear her husband mutter the name in his
sleep, a childish giggle following. That's when her elbow would ‘ac-
cidentally’ find its way to his spine.

At the sight of the first fruiting, George's infatuation had
only grown stronger. Hours he'd spend at the window, eyes on Ve-
ronica.' Even when in front of their supposedly favourite TV shows,

Denise would find her husband with his head turned towards the
garden, a gormless and gummy smile etched across his face. She'd
even sometimes wake up throughout the night to find his side of the
bed empty and cold.

And it had all led to this day.

Standing at the centre of his kingdom, George felt himself
shaking, Finally,” he said, coiling his knotted fingers around the
fruit's skin. Warm and tight, yet so tender as though it could break
with the slightest of knocks, At its peak, George thought. Saliva
flooded his mouth as he imagined sinking his dentures into the full-
ness of the unusual and unique fruit.

He felt so special. For the sake of pollination, he knew there
must have been a similar tree nearby, but still, this was a highlight in
an otherwise uneventful life. He even compared himself to Adam,
on the verge of taking the first bite of the forbidden fruit.

“You're mine. All mine.”

Prolonging the foreplay, George lifted the fruit and held it
to his nose, allowing the not-unpleasant smell of cheap perfume to
wrap around him. He closed his eyes and inhaled. Skin tightened
around his skull. Even though the sun blazed, goosebumps ran up
both arms. He giggled. Gently squeezing the warm flesh, an image
of a firm but pliable breast flashed in his head. He could see it with
such clarity, a bead of sweat running down the small mound and
the nipple standing proud, like a fortified castle at the top of a hill.
Lust possessed him. Flesh filled his mind. He could smell it. Taste it.
For the first time in years, there was a stir in his pants. He groaned.

“What in God's name are you doing, George Halliwell?”

Snapping from the trance, George opened his eyes to see
Denise standing in the doorway. He searched for words, but his
head was still somewhere else. "Hey, love,” he finally muttered, his
voice at least an octave higher. "I was just seeing if—"

“And what the hell is that?!"

Following his wife's eyeline, George studied the small but
unmistakable tent pitched at the crotch of his pants. "Ah, er...” He
lifted his head, his skin as pale as milk. Still lost in a world of for-
bidden flesh and moans, he tried to find something a little more
convincing. ‘I think... just the way I'm standing, love.”

Denise screwed her face up in appalled disbelief, "I was just
going to say I'll be at Edith’s if needed, but it looks like Veronica's
already taking good care of you.”

"It's just the way I'm'’—George winced as the back door
slammed—'standing.”

Alone again, he turned his attention back to the fruit and
closed his eyes. It wasn't long before he was back in the world of
warm flesh and subdued light. He lifted the fruit to his skin, rolling
itacross his cheeks and neck. Every square inch of his flesh prickled.
Still, he resisted the urge to bite it, savouring every moment. His legs
weakened. His stomach fluttered. But it was the faintest of whispers
that set his pulse pounding. Without a thought, George lifted the
fruit to his right ear.

Do it, George.

Taste me. Set me free.

Taste me, George..

Taste me.

Taste...

She was close.

She could feel it.

She could almost smell the air.

Feel the breeze on her skin.

Even under several feet of soil, she knew she could still se-
duce. To mesmerise. To make them fall at her feet. This time, an old
man. But still a man. Over the years, the roots had formed, albeit
painstakingly slowly, pushing their way through rocks and earth
towards the surface. Towards freedom. Towards a second coming.

Flowering was the easy bit, each one a previous victim, the memory
of their demise as sweet as the fruit she had finally managed to pro-
duce. Only her love for him kept her going over the years; thoughts
of reuniting and picking up where they left off were all she had to
hold onto.

Yes, she was close.

Bite me, George.

Taste me.

Eat me.

Drink me.

Doit..

George trembled with anticipation as he brought the fruit
to his lips again. He began to wonder if it was all in his mind. But as
thoughts continued filling with flesh, the sultry whisper lingered on
the breeze: Bite me, George. Eat me. Drink me. Whatever you want,
George. Weak at the knees, he felt like a teenager with a silly crush.
His mouth watered. His body ached, but with desire.

Alas, he could wait no longer. Shuddering at the inevitable
sweetness that would follow, George sank his teeth into the fruit.
As predicted, the silky skin provided a quiet but satisfying pop. He
closed his eyes, preparing to savour perfection.

Almost immediately, he knew something wasnt right.

No sweetness. No warmth.

George gagged, but so greedily had he sunk his teeth into
the skin; the cold and viscous substance was already halfway down
his oesophagus. Bitter, metallic, grainy, and far from what was
promised.

Hack. Hack. Hack.

A glistening globule of what looked like blood mixed with
soil ejected onto his freshly cut grass. And another. What the—
Hack. Hack. Stringy saliva swung from his chin. Hack. Eyes wide
and watery, he took a step back. And another. But as the projectiles

in front of him congealed into darkened lumps, he froze. No way.
Just no—

His stomach burned. His throat, too.

"Help, he croaked, doubling over with his hands to his
throat. “Help!”

As the solidified mounds near his right foot crumbled into
black ash, George tried to scream but could only find a rasp. He
fell to his knees and dropped the fruit. Warmth spread across the
crotch of his pants. As he felt his insides began to curdle, he silently
screamed.

How could you, Veronica?

I thought we had something?

Distant laughter carried on the breeze.

Something other than perfume filled his nostrils as he col-
lapsed and rolled to his back. Something bad. Something... evil. Eyes
on the cloudless sky, his legs kicked weakly until they didn't. His
head tilted. Pinkish drool spilled onto the grass. Just before the wave
of blackness came for him, he saw a dirt-covered hand thrust from
the base of his beloved tree.

She laughed.

She cried.

She clawed her way through the last of the soil and emerged,
weak but euphoric at the feel of the breeze against her cheek. Above
ground. No more darkness. No more struggle. She brushed herself
down and grabbed a dress from the washing line. For now, it would
have to do. After slipping it over her head, she eyed the frail, lifeless
body on the grass.

“Sorry, George.”

She took her first few steps. Second nature before long. At
the very edge of the garden, she turned and blew a kiss to the dead
old man.

“But true love never dies.”

Colours were more vibrant than she remembered, but she
guessed centuries under soil would mute her recollections in such a
way. And the smells. Oh, the smells. All that flesh. All those oppor-
tunities. Excitement ran through her blackened veins as she stepped
onto the street.

Where are you, my darling?

Every winter endured had been an ordeal to bring her closer
to him. From the day she had set eyes on him, she knew he was just
like her. A kindred spirit. A tortured soul. A slighted witch fuelled
by childhood trauma and driven by a shared hatred of anything else
that lived, breathed, and talked. Especially men. Besotted, they began
their journey into darkness. And what a rush, Intoxicated with false
hope and cheap scent, men would flock, and he would gut them.
Then, after lifting their blood-filled glasses in a toast, they would
feast on their heart and liver. So much carnage. So much pleasure.

Free reign.

Until that day.

Careless. Blinded by lust and carnage.

Atrap.

Anambush.

And there was no way they would ever let a “witch” see a tri-
al. Burying her alive, they laughed as they threw dirt over her face.
She could only assume he had met the same fate. From sun-up to
sun-down, she'd prayed that he, too, would be carving his way back
through the earth.

Now she knew.

Blind faith had taken her so far, but to be able to fruit, she'd
needed pollen from the same type of tree. From him.

Soon, they would be reunited.

Hungry.

Thirsty.

More sinful than ever.

How to Make

Glass Casserole

When Ava closes her eyes, the colors bleed through.

She likes the ones that crinkle, like the little grains that race
in the dark. If she rubs her eyes, sometimes the red stays, a pulsing
stain like her own secret god. Mom tells her if she keeps doing it,
she'll ruin her eyes, but Ava thinks she’s wrong.

She sits at the kitchen island, feet dangling over the bar-
stool, There's a new game on her tablet, but Ava thinks sometimes
it’s more interesting to watch Mom use her real eyes. There are ex-
actly 24 cookies on the cooling rack. Mom leans over her phone,
adjusting a photo so that the cookies are the right shade of brown.
They look fine to Ava, but Mom adds a nauseating green hue. Green
is Ava's least favorite color; everything looks sick through it.

Mom is really good at baking, and Ava is happy that she’s
doing it more. The cookies are frosted into identical smiling pup-
pies, their eyes blank empty discs. Ava would feel bad eating them.
Mom decorated all of the, even though she knows the icing tastes
sharp on Ava's teeth. It doesn’t matter; they're not actually for Ava.
She can just scrape the icing puppy off when Mom finishes record-
ing.

“Mom ... Mama,” Ava kicks her feet into the kitchen island.

“Hm?”

“Why do we have the—”

“Hang on, one second,” Mom picks her phone off the count-
er. Sometimes Ava wonders if it’s easier to see out of the cameras,
blank empty discs leering down on her.

Ava glares down the lens of Mom's false eyes.

“Okay,” Mom says. “Start over.”

“Why is the TV’s room downstairs?”

“We're using the living room as Mama's studio. Besides,
there's better lighting downstairs.”

“I don't like it.”

"You don't like it?” Mom's voice goes up, like when she talks
to the neighbor's little dog. Ava can't get one until she’s six. But she
doesn't like the little dog. It barks at night and growls at her on their
weekly walks.

“It's in the wrong spot. It's in the stomach of the house,” Ava
explains.

“Okay, then." Mom laughs. "What's this floor?”

“The heart,” Ava puts her hand over her chest to demon-
strate. “And upstairs is where it thinks.”

“The brain?”

“Yeah, | guess so.” It makes Ava feel yellow inside to know
Mom understands. She wonders if a brain is really that wrinkly in
real life. She learned that people have a large brain made out of dif-
ferent strands of gray ribbon, but she can't figure out how a head
can also fita mouth if that’s true. She tested it once

“I guess I never thought about it that way.”

Mom hands Ava a cookie asa treat and asks to film ita sec-
ond time (‘just in case’). She says the second take reads better; they'll
probably just use the first one for b-roll footage. Ava does not know
what that means. There are soft yellow lights above the kitchen cab-
inets, and if she stares into them, they dance.

She wipes off the icing on the stairs so she doesn’t hurt
Mom's feelings.

Ava doesn't like this new house as much as their old one.
First, their old home had furniture in it. Ava knows that they packed
it all because she saw men load it into orange trucks; they must have
stolen the furniture. The old couch and table didn't arrive with
Ava's toys at the new house. Second, there’s too many people nearby.
There are boys that live across the street that don’t like to go inside
at night. Ava hears them outside her window, as if they stood in the
center of her room. They spiral in the darkness of her head when
she tries to fall asleep at night.

The new house is emaciated, and Ava has a hard time find-
ing it when she plays outside. She thinks the builders were lazy, that
they just made the same house over and over again like a giant con-
nected spine. Mom said that their new house is a townhome, which
means the neighbors are inside their walls. Dad is also sad about it.
Since the move, he spends all his time in the new office upstairs.
Mom is the only one good at pretending to not be sad—she's made
a lot of baking videos, but they haven't made one together in a long
time. On the day she was born, Mom and Dad started the vlog chan-
nel.

“Think about it like your own scrapbook,” Dad said, when
he showed her the channel. “Every moment represents a snapshot
in time that you can look back on, The best part is, we get to share it
with all of our friends.”

Last time Ava asked, they had around 1.5 million friends all
around the world. Except Ava's friends lived in the phone, and only
came out to visit sometimes. One man on the street told her she was
funny and pretty before Mom made him leave. Ava doesn’t know
why it upset Mom so much. Mom says that their channel only goes
one way, and while their friends are welcome to say hello under vid-
eos, they're not supposed to talk to Ava in real life.

After that, they got a code word, bubblegum pink. Ava chose
it herself.

Ava doesn't like to watch most of their videos. It makes her
head feel dizzy when she's inside the tablet. The only one she likes is
the video where she's born; she’s fascinated by how pink babies are
when they turn alive. She watches her own face screw up into a tiny
scream. Dad says she’s perfect. Mom says she’s beautiful.

The only room that Ava likes in the new house is her own.

I's the only place that still feels like people live in it; the
thieves didn't steal her bed or the canopy with her fairy lights. Dad
says they're going to paint her room pink again to match her favor-
ite feelings. In her old room, at night, the walls looked like a section
of skin stretched tight.

That afternoon, before Ava takes a nap, she draws the cur-
tains tight. She likes to sleep with her eyes pressed down into her
arms. It makes a blue blossom out of the static, and when Ava fol-
lows it down, she goes into the mouth of the house

Ava is happiest outside of her body.

A house has teeth like a baleen whale, made of wire and
cheap wood. It filters people in and makes a fleshy nest for them be-
fore they realize they've been swallowed alive. The new house con-
sumes Ava awake, but when she’s asleep, she becomes part of it. She
doesn’t have legs now, so it’s easier to move sideways on the walls the
same way that Mr. Hab showed her.

Mom and Dad did not know that they had a cat. Ava didn't
think that they would mind because Mr. Hab didn't have a body,
which is ideal with any pet. The first night in the new house, Mr.
Hab invited Ava to become a shadow on the ceiling. They raced
from the brain of the house down to the stomach and back. Now
she could play with Mr. Hab anytime she fell asleep; he lives in the

house's baleen teeth.

Ava slips under the door frame and across the hall to Dad's
office. Her body's never been in there, but she knows every detail of
the space. When Ava is outside of her body, she can only see the im-
print of people. There's no need for air in the mouth of the house.
When Mr. Hab needs Ava to know something, she hears it in her
inside voice. Mr. Hab says that Dad is voyeuristically sinful, but Ava
isn’t sure what he means.

In the mouth of the house, Dad appears like a cluster of tiny
white bugs occupying the shadow space where his body ought to be.
He's hunched over the computer desk, and although Ava cannot see
his eyes in the dark, she knows he's tired. The computer hums to
comfort him, and the bugs rub their wings in response. Dad scrolls
through the comments on the last family video before they moved.

So ... they're just not going to respond to Nate
getting caught cheating, huh?
Yeah, it's weird. Also are they filming on a
soundstage now? There's no furniture.
Amber is apparently in negotiations for a
home deco spot.

Watch at 10.48, is that a bruise on Ava's arm?

Yeah, | think so.

Not to be an armchair psychologist, but what
Ava describes sounds like visual snow syn-
drome and could be an early indicator of an
anxiety disorder. Poor baby.

This used to be my comfort channel before Am-
ber went granola, STFU and vaccinate your child

He deletes them all.

The bugs become still, and for the first time in her life, Ava
hears Dad weep. Ava can’t comfort him from up on the ceiling, al-
though she isn't sure what she'd say. Before the move, she remem-
bers Mom and Dad going into the other room a lot. Their voices
became low, but she knew they were angry. She wanted to become
flat so she could fit under the doorway and comfort them.

‘Ava wonders if she did something wrong.

Mr. Hab told Ava that she brought them to the house, she
made them come to the place with the barking dog and the hous-
es that connect on each side, She made them choose her bedroom,
where she could hear the boys across the street talk at night because
they didn’t want to go home. Maybe she wasn't funny enough, or
maybe their friends were bored with her—why else would Dad get
rid of the comments? Dad stops crying. He looks like a doll crum-
pled down on the floor. The white bugs inside of him scratch at the
outline of his body. They're repulsed by him. He can't feel the thou-
sands of legs crawling inside his skin.

Dad picks up his phone, and begins to record.

Ava slips through the bones, to the heart of the house. Mom
put away her baking; the cookies sleep in clean glass containers.
When Ava leaves her body, she’s not afraid of the bugs inside of Dad.
They're too small. She is afraid of Mom and her deep empty insides.
There are teeth where her eyes are, made to cut and grind until ev-
erything around her fits into a singular digestible bite

Mom sits at her recording desk; at their old house, she used
to share an office with Dad. Now they worked in separate rooms,
and Dad slept on the couch in the house's stomach sometimes. The

bugs seem to like the basement. It's dark, and the new TV has real-
ly good sound quality. The room that should be their living room
contains the following: a desk, a greenscreen, two lights shaped like
Christmas halos, and a long cylindrical black camera. Ava doesn’t
know why they need such a big camera when she opens toys at the
desk. Sometimes Mom uses the space for their informational videos,
where she talks about poison in medicine and why she thinks it’s so
important to bea mom.

The teeth where Mom's eyes should be remind Ava of a
glass of milk. The teeth are white in the center, and there's a thin
gray film wrapped around the gums. The jaws on Mom's upper
teeth harden—there’s a video on their channel that she did not write
on their posting schedule. Dad is one of the people in her phone
now, on the screen he looks like himself. The crouching mass of
bugs remains upstairs, where his true face hides.

“Hey guys,” Dad says. The light of the camera makes him a
waxy thing, like grandma at her funeral. “I know there's been a lot
of feelings going around lately. Let me start off by saying ANAfam
is doing great. We're just tired from the move, and getting ready to
bring you more of the content you crave.”

He clears his throat, and Mom grinds both sets of teeth.

“l also wanted to address the elephant in the room, a very
small one at that. We are pregnant! Amber and I are so excited to
welcome our second child with you. Expect more baby updates in
the future—and hey, maybe we'll reach out and poll you guys for
names. Alright, that’s all for now ANAfam. Live authentically! We'll
catch you next time.”

Ava doesn't know why Dad calls ita baby. The first time she
drifted, she saw it glowing in Mom's belly, just a small pink speck.
Pink is Ava's favorite color, because it comes from the inside. The
pink speck grew for about a week before it shriveled and became
emptiness again. Things that don’t live can’t die, but it still makes

Ava sad to think about. Mr. Hab disagrees. He says Ava she ate all
the baby’s nutrients, so it starved. He made it sound like Ava did it
on purpose, but she was so excited for a baby sister.

Now there wasn’t one, and Mom would need to tell their 1.5
million friends.

Mom is still, and for a moment, Ava finally understands
what it means to live authentically. Dad always repeated it at the
end of their videos; he said that it was their call to action. Ava
thought that authentic meant that you caught it with a camera, be-
cause cameras can't lie. But it really means to be chewed down into
something marketable.

Unlike a person, stumbling through life without meaning, a
house understands that it is an inauthentic entity. A house has pur-
pose; it's born with the correct number of bones. Ava enjoys sleep,
because it comes with the regiment of becoming still and unbeing.
But Mom cannot stomach the thought of not wanting a body. She
feels it, cold and spat out before it has the chance to calcify inside of
her. Mr. Hab tells Ava that people are born starving.

But Mr. Hab was born differently, from a mandible left bur-
ied in the earth. He scratches inside the floors and walls with claws
he fashioned out of steel nails. Ava wonders if she would have been
happier without his invitation to become a shadow. She would at
least know less. The cat stretches out inside her head, satisfied with
his work.

Mom walks with hungry eyes towards the kitchen.

The kitchen beats within the heart of their empty house,
forced to have an anatomy. The cabinets are painted gray, like
clouds heavy with rain. Ava used to find that peaceful; now it feels
like something trying to burst out of her. The first week in the new
house, Ava burned her hand ona casserole dish. The glass bit down
on her skin, leaving a blister filled with clear liquid. Even though
Mom said not to, Ava popped it in the bathroom.

Tonight, there's baked ziti in the casserole dish. Mom re-
moves it from the oven and sets the burners on top of the stove to
high. Here's how to make your very own glass casserole at home:
first, remove the casserole that's already in your oven after it bakes
for twenty minutes at 430 degrees. Feel the heat sizzle inside, as your
skin melts into part of the pan. Set the casserole dish down on top
of the oven, making sure to cover both burners. Glass is an excellent
carbohydrate replacement: it stretches the stomach wide like a tent,
even though there's nothing inside to nourish you.

For extra flavor, stick your cellphone inside the pasta. It will
scream, a corroding sound made out of lithium and copper. Let the
dish sit for three minutes until it bursts and sizzles into amber col-
ored glass and cheese. For an added garnish, plate with a side salad
and extra schadenfreude.

“Amber, why is the fire alarm on?” Dad calls from upstairs.

‘Ava doesn't feel things as deeply when she’s out of her body.
The kitchen smells like lemon cleaner, and there's a buzz in her ear
from the alarm. She feels the wire and wood of the house shift into
agrin.

“Amber?” Dad calls again, this time he comes downstairs.

It strikes Ava—for the first time in her life—that the way
they behave is so different from what they tell her. They had a rule
for the fire alarm at the old house. Ava was supposed to go next
door to Mrs. Miller's house and ask permission to call 911. She re-
members because they filmed a video called Ways We Prepare for
an Emergency.

Dad responds to this fire differently; he picks up his camera
and goes towards it. Mom and dad have false eyes; the camera can-
not blink for them. In the same way, the new house has two mouths.
There's the front door that leads you in and promises safety, and
there's the other mouth with teeth that only Ava could see. The
house smiles around them, satisfied with their digestible emptiness.

Ava never knew the word hate. Mom said that it was dirty.
They didn’t hate people, she said; they felt sorry for people who
didn’t understand their decisions as documentarians. Mom used
that word to describe their channel a lot, even though Ava felt dirty
every time she said it. But no, hate was the right word in this in-
stance, Ava hated the camera, those false eyes that followed her
through every step in life.

When Dad makes a mistake, the camera forgets about it; he
calls this editing. The same is not true for Ava. If she has a strong
feeling in the store, the title of the video becomes Our Five-Year-
Old Has a Public Meltdown. There is no forgetting for her. There
are a thousand different shards of her body broken down and sold
into digestible five second clips forever. There are people that hate
her, simply because they have made her into something hostile.

“Amber?” Dad is annoyed, but doesn’t understand.

Once, Ava tried to fit her entire fist in her mouth to see if
she could touch her brain. Mom is in the middle of a similar exper-
iment, both of her jaws stretched tight over mouthfuls of blackened
glass.

Dad drops his phone, and for the first time in a long time,
he and Mom see each other as they are. The glass sits wedged in
the emptiness of Mom's throat. Dad says nothing; he doesn't need
an invitation to sit down at their table. The bugs scratch inside his
skin, searching for an exit. Dad is a toothless maw, unable to bite the
shards into smaller pieces. The glass travels down his throat and up
his nose to pop the bugs inside. Mom and Dad eat quietly on oppo-
site ends of the kitchen island, two reconciled creatures of habit.

Inside the dark of their bodies, there's nothing for the glass
to mimic. They are made artificial inside and out. The house re-
laxes its jaws, free from meaty contamination. Ava feels like a lure,
reeled up back through the ceiling and into the brain of the house.
Back inside her body, she feels the heaviness of sleep. It feels strange

to again have muscles, blood pumping through her arms and legs.
She's hungry, and smells dinner cooking downstairs.

The walls of their house are painted an exquisite shade of
pink.

THE

HARE

Jennifer sat on the slanted front stoop of her new-to-
her tiny house, with her phone clutched in both hands and her com-
forter tight around her shoulders. At the edge of the mobile home
park where the trees encroached, the hare stared at Jennifer from
the darkness with gleaming eyes. All of Jennifer's stupid, hopeful
decisions had led her to this: washed up on the shore of fifty-six,

feeling like she was ninety-six.

She turned her phone and the screen lit up. 5:15 am. It

would be just after eight in Virginia

Scotty picked up on the second ring. “Jen, what the hell?”

“I'm sorry. Did I wake you?”

He was silent for a long time. She worried at her thumbnail,
tore it stinging down to the quick, and hissed. From across the dirt
and gravel, the hare continued to gaze at her unblinking.

“What are you doing up at five?" Scotty said finally.

“It's here again, Scotty. The hare.”

After another long pause, he said, “Jen, what are you talking
about? Are you okay? Wait, are you talking about the rabbit?”

“It's not a rabbit,” Jennifer said, louder than she meant to.

She pressed a hand over her mouth. No lights came on in
Cherimoya Mobile Estates. No dogs barked. The hare flicked an ear,
then raised a hind leg and scratched leisurely. The word “rabbit”
implied a creature chubby and soft, floppy-eared and darling. This
creature was lean and lanky and wild with eyes that were eons old.

Scotty blew outa breath. “Jen, come home.”

“can't,” Jennifer said.

“Sure you can. Be reasonable. How can it be the same ani-
mal? Texas. Arizona. Now California. Do you hear how you sound?
Why are you even awake at five in the morning?”

This time, Jennifer didn't answer his question.

Scotty added, “Do you think it could be... the change?”

At first, she thought he meant her change of location. She
had zig-zagged across the southwest, stopping in small, dusty towns,
towing her tiny house behind her Toyota 4Runner, and was always
met by the hare.

He said, “Menopause. I read somewhere it can trigger all
sorts of weird symptoms. Have you thought about that, Jen?”

Jennifer hung up. Her brother called back and she let it go
to voicemail. He didn't try again.

She woke up looking at the underside of the sleeping loft
in the buttery light of full morning. Upside-down, she saw the lad-
der and the tail of her yellow flowered bed sheet fluttering over the
edge of the loft. She had drifted to sleep on the front stoop with her
shoulder against the closed door. She was absolutely certain. Yet,
during the night, the door of her house had swung open. Not swift-
ly, propelled by her weight sagging against it, but ever so slowly, eas-
ing her to the braided-rag rug inside the door like a lover returning,
so that she woke with her head nearly touching the ladder to the
loft, and her legs dangling out the door.

Jennifer sat up so fast, black sparks burst in her vision.
Scrambling to her feet, she bolted down the steps. The comforter
twined catlike around her ankles and she fell in the scrubby grass
and dirt of her Post-It sized front yard. Bits of gravel stabbed her
palms and her knees.

“Whoa there!” exclaimed a hearty male voice. “Are you
okay?”

She climbed stiffly to her feet, her cheeks burning with hu-
miliation. Her neighbor, whose name she'd learned and immediate-
ly forgotten, looked at her with a cautious, curious smirk.

“I'm so sorry,” Jennifer said, brushing dirt and bits of dead
grass off her comforter.

The man’s black-and-white speckled dog had strained the
length of its leash and was snuffling furiously at the border of trees
and scrub where the hare had sat earlier in the early morning's
darkness.

“You take care,” said her neighbor. “You're all alone here,
aren't you? No one to look after you. Be careful now.”

“Yes,” Jennifer said. “Thank you.”

As he tugged the dog away from the underbrush, Jennifer
bent to pick up her phone from the dirt. Nine thirty. She had half an
hour to throw on her uniform and haul ass to the diner.

She thought about calling Heaven on Wheels, the company
that sold her the tiny house, but what was the point? How could she
possibly explain? Everything had been fine for the first few weeks.
She hadn't exactly adored living in a tiny house, but she hadn't
minded it. The purchase had eaten nearly all of her meager savings.
She'd had to abandon most of her belongings, decluttering so close
to the bone that it still hurt to think about all the gone-away books
and clothes and craft supplies gathering dust in a second-hand
store now, to be picked over then passed over; discarded in a dump-
ster, collected by a garbage truck, crushed to nothing and forgotten
ina landfill under the unforgiving sun.

But all she had to pay was lot rent, far cheaper than renting
an apartment. If she didn’t like a place, she drove away. Easy, breezy.
The house was hers forever.

Jennifer reached up and clicked off the bubble light affixed

to the ceiling of the sleeping loft. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness,
revealing blurry rectangles of light. It wouldn't start right away. It
was coy. It began only after she surrendered to sleep. Whenever she
tried to stay awake, it eluded her.

The first time, she brushed it off as a nightmare. Or sleep
paralysis, But, it always happened the same way. She woke up, damp
with sweat and heavy with dread. The weight, the mass pressed
against her in the narrow bed. The smells of deodorant and sweat
not her own, mingled with the tang of beer. The indefinable know-
ing that this presence was male. The gasp in her ear, a ragged, whis-
tling sound, as if someone had tried to shriek but couldn't draw a
breath.

The small window over the sleeping loft cast down grayish
light. A glimpse of trees and faraway stars twinkled through a slit
in the thin curtains. The comforter lay smooth as a snowfall, undis-
turbed beside Jennifer, as she waited in petrified silence for the next
part.

Bedclothes rustled as the thing sat up. Wood creaked as it
shifted, dragging its bulk across her legs, forcing her down into the
mattress. A scrabble at the ladder, quick thuds in succession, then
a thump as it reached the bottom. Another stealthy fumble-rattle.
It banged into the kitchen counter, clumsy just like a man trying
not to wake her. A sharp clap: the door opening and banging back
against the cabinets, and it ran out of the house. Footfalls down the
three steps.

Silence. It was over.

It took Jennifer three more nights to call Heaven on Wheels.
She'd steeled herself to leave a firm voicemail, but Mark answered
the phone even though it was after six in the evening.

“Oh, I'ma workaholic,” he told her with a laugh. "Guilty as

charged. How are you liking the house?”

Had he injected some extra sales-guy heartiness into his
voice, or was it Jennifer's sleep-deprived imagination?

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about, actually,’ she said.

‘Jennifer,’ he said. "when you purchased this home, you
did so with the understanding that it was offered at a discount be-
cause—"

“spent a lot of money on this house,’ Jennifer cut him off,
hating the way her voice quavered.

Nearly all her money. Money that she'd scraped together
over an eternity of working garbage jobs for garbage bosses, forever
teetering one paycheck away from disaster. Not quite good enough,
not worth enough to any company, nothing more than a disposable,
replaceable drone. She would never be able to stop working until
she died, and it made her want to sob and scream Let me out, let me
out, let me out! and hammer at the walls until her fists were bloody
and her throat was raw.

Until there's nothing left but a whistling gasp, she thought,
and shuddered.

“You had the house inspected,’ Mark said.

“know. I just... | need to find out who owned it before me.”

“I can't give you that information. I'm sorry."

"Did they die? In that house? In my house?"

"As I explained to you when you purchased the house, by
law I have to disclose that to a buyer if they ask. You did ask. And I
told you no.”

"But, someone did die.”

“| didn’t say that,’ Mark replied in a calm and measured
tone that made Jennifer's throat ache with rage. "The house was
sold back to us. It happens. People decide they don't care for the tiny
house lifestyle. We can't offer a full reftund—

"Of course not.” Tears burned in Jennifer's eyes.

"— but if the house is structurally sound and it's clean, an
owner can recoup some of their investment. Is that the route you'd
like to take, Jennifer?"

"You wouldn't have to tell me if someone died three feet
from the front steps.”

"That's beyond the purview of a real estate company.”

The word haunted sat in the center of their conversation
like the hare in the shadows under the trees; while she and Mark
circled it, neither were willing to step closer.

“Besides which,” Mark went on with a fresh gush of sales-
man cheer, “your house is on a trailer. Three steps could be three
hundred miles.”

“That's true,” Jennifer said. And yet.

“Where are you now?” Mark asked.

“California.”

“Well, there you go! No better place on Earth than Califor-
nia. Why don't you drive up the coast? Inhale some of that fresh
ocean air, and blow the cobwebs out. Clear your head.”

“Thank you,” said Jennifer. “I’m sure you're right.”

“Of course I'm right,” said Mark. “You'll see.”

When she hung up, she noticed a text from Scotty.

I'm sorry if offended you. But you sounded crazy.

I'm fine, she texted back. Just tired, I guess.

Come home. The firm's looking for a receptionist. I'll put
ina good word.

Jennifer's thumbs hovered over the phone keyboard. She
glanced out her window and saw, with no surprise, the hare had
appeared in the gathering lavender twilight, at the edge of the trees,
calmly gazing at her with its eternal eyes. Jennifer raised her phone
and snapped a picture to send to Scotty. When she looked at the
photo, nothing was visible beneath the trees except darkness.

THE WHITWORTH

SHEARING

4, The Whitworth Shearing

Mardrosk gestured to his briefcase,
closed like the future at table's edge,
as he opened his book and said, Let us
begin. He inhaled deeply and paused,
still as a stone before it drops
to shatter the surface of the pond.

The purification must
begin with the hair, he said.
Bethany, unhearing, watched
his lips, but soon lost
their movement as they contorted
into serpentine shapes, speaking
a language unheard for centuries.
Who knows what sounds
gathered like carrion birds,
spiraling in the
widening gyre, the air
a wavering heat haze
in spite of February's chill?

After some time, he repeated,
The purification must
begin with the hair.

The librarian, Ada Young, was the first
to step forward and open the briefcase.

She reached inside, then raised her arm,
brandishing a straight razor. Others
came forward and claimed
instruments from the case.

They disrobed, began
shaving one another, from hairy feet
to crown of head. Bethany slunk
behind the counter.

The second stage is the flesh.

nt J

4

The razors dug deeper, slicing strips
from the forearm of Bethany’s paralegal,
from the thighs of the mayor. Bethany

could tell by their closed mouths. No
one screamed. The room was silent
except for the blades.

The third stage is cessation of the senses.

®

fe

Razors bit into ears and
noses, punctured past

conjunctiva into

. the eye's jelly. Bethany

fled, missing the fourth

and fifth stage, and the

sixth, missing Mardrosk's

glorious exit.

Exit? Ascension? Regardless,
he was gone when

5. Stepping Over A Puddle In Winter, I Think Of The
Ancient Governess In Her Golden Robes, Her Hem
Damp From Snow, Walking Her Labyrinthine Path Until
It Dries, Until Snow Falls To Dampen It Again

What story—

an impossible papyrus
scroll that rewrites itself
as you read, expanding
ever downward line-
by-line as though the
plant were still alive
and growing, cascading
thorough your hands—

are you telling yourself—

a cassette tape, reeking
of cigarette smoke, that
you never purchased for
yourself, but that you
played incessantly, now
unspooling _ infinitely
from its well-worn case—

about yourself—

the supermassive heart
of a black hole eating
the slightest thread of
light, devouring every
faint pinpoint of hope—

today?

6. What Was Found, What Was Lost

two hours later an officer on
patrol happened upon the scene,
stopped for death, stepped
into red silence,
into wet stillness, and was never
the same. He was certain he saw
movement in his periphery, as though
the air itself congealed like leftover
gravy, stretching taut as vellum as
something pushed, an embryo
against amniotic walls. Pivoting,
he saw nothing but
red soaking the saffron cushions,
red reflecting in the storefront
windows, red shining in the
welcoming glow of the lamps.

There were pieces
missing, pieces not
cut cleanly away, pieces
torn out like picturebook
Pages in the grasp of a
fervent toddler rushing
to story's end.

Bethany was found

in the far corner of the square,
fetal in the empty

fountain, near-frozen, one ear
lost to frostbite, less lost

~ than the rest.

In Pericope, one spattered copy
of the Offering lay
on the author's table. It was taken
into evidence, but like a life or
a story, it was lost somewhere
along the way. It still

exists. Would you like
to see it?

7. Jump Scare

Horror stories are better

than horror films because

horror stories have a cover you
can slam shut. You are in control.

You traverse each sentence
at your own pace, slowing
when your footing is unsure,
when the frantic dove

of your heart flutters for escape.
You know your limits, you close
the book. You are safe. Now,
films, you might counter, offer

a pause button, offer your own
hands and eyelids to shut out
any ascendant threat. But films
don't play fair. They jump

scare. They lull you

into a lie of security, or misdirect
you from the true danger.

They weaken your resolve

with a cat's yowl, make you
blame yourself for your own
vigilance, then pounce with
blade or saw or worse. Horror

films and stories—about suffering
they are never wrong.
But films impose their will.
Stories invite you along.

8. Ferry the Future

A monosyllabic German named Kung
wrote stories, wrote plays, wrote
novels, wrote the masterpiece
Ceto in Labor. The public
said Elke J. Kung carried
their dreams, so they bought her
books, they memorized
her lines, they flitted about
the streets like mother birds
regurgitating her half-digested
quotes to each other. For years,
her words were the unseen beams
and columns that girded
the shape of their lives.
But then—

Elke J. Kung, whose
words carried dreams, whose
words were a raft, ferried
the future too soon. She delved
deeper and farther, stole
starshine, pilfered darkness,
hopping genres like a deranged
childhood game where
house melts into blind man's
buff into forfeits. Fantasy,
sci-fi, and horror, polyamorous.
Past, present, and future in
a blender. Woods in the
winter. Mud in the stars.
Blood in hearts and streets
in equal measure. She
was mocked, then
cast out, then ignored.
She wandered her halls,
her words echoing
for herself, alone.

Her final story,

seven pages saturated

with this echoing voice,
sardined with her cramped
handwriting, was lost in
1901. Or stolen, perhaps.
Unknown and unread,

it fell through time,

unknown and unread,

until it wasn't.

THE
ONE ESH

Nobody likes grey eyes, do they?

I feel like that’s how it is.

Mama used to say they were special eyes. She said they
turned dark when a storm was coming and pale and bright when
the sun was high in the sky.

Mama doesn’t say much of anything these days. Won't even
say my name anymore. “Annie, Annie,” she used to say. Now she
stares blank when I get her a drink of water, eats only when I fix her
something. Guess that makes me Mama, and I don't know how to
feel about that. Sometimes she cries, but Daddy says it's just the dust.

I'm fresh sixteen, thinking more and more these days and I
have to stop.

The bus only comes by on Thursdays, so today I walk home
from the store. My thighs'll get big from all this walking. Keep neat,
keep petite. I'm sweating under my dress ~ dust out here is different
from anywhere else, I'd swear it.

We haven't been here all my life. We got the house now, but
who knows how long that'll last.

I have some beans, some flour, that stuff we don't get at
home. I used to do this with Mama. No-one holds my hand now,
except my cousin, and I don’t want him to. Ain't that the way?

Creeks are hard to come by ~ they're like a storm in a tea-
cup, Daddy says, and I think that's the wrong thing to say but I don’t
say it — but there's one on this trail. It's a trickle like a vein ina heart,

all beaten up and bruised. I take my shoes off, but I only take ‘em off
closest to the water because the hot ground burns the soles of my
feet. And you ever had a burnt toe? No fun.

The water is cool on my skin. I wish I could take off my
dress, stay there in just my slip, but I was raised right. I've left the
groceries creekside, and it feels good to be free of the heavy weight
in my arms. When I get in, Sherman will pinch me on the fanny be-
cause he'll see | have my hands full, and then I'll tell Daddy and he'll
tell me to stop whining, and then Mama will say nothing at all and
I'll get that feeling in my guts again.

I can't quit thinking. | walk into the water a little further.
I know, I know I shouldn't. It's not safe. I don't know how deep the
water goes, can't see from where I am. The bottom of my dress is
sinking under all the water seeping in, pulling me down. It’s too hot
to be thinking this hard. I should only feel. All I want to do is have
time to feel.

I regret thinking it as soon as it happens.

What..?

slimy, puckered thing slides against my hand.

I make a sound like a bird, screeching so that birds, the real
birds, are flushed out into the heavy blue sky. Water flies as I thrash
about — I can't stop hollering at that cold touch. I'm stuck. My legs
aren't able to move for what feels like forever, but | finally find it in
myself to burst out of the water with a huge gasp.

‘The groceries are strewn across the bank. My dress drips in
the heat of the sun

I'm home and I'm still shaking so hard that I can’t keep the
bag in my arms straight. At least my dress is mostly dry — hurrying
along the dirt path home with my dress wet and cold reminded me
too much of that ~ that thing.

“ANNIE!” is the yell I hear as soon as I get through the door.
They must've heard the screen door. “GO HELP YOUR COUSIN!”

Daddy never says what I need to help Sherman with. I don’t
bother asking him. I know where he'll be.

I swallow, hard, like I'm trying to eat a ball of grain. I put
down the bag, walking halfway up the stairs and hovering anxious-
ly; I see the shadow of Daddy in the bedroom, pipe-smoke curling
around the scratch of his whiskers. “Daddy...?” I tried.

“Downstairs,” he mutters. | think I see the shine of his eyes.
Ours isa dark house.

“Daddy, something happened.”

He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't go off on me either.
I take that as a good sign, for better or worse, because | need to get
this story out of me. “I went down to the creek.”

Another puff of his pipe. “And?”

“I went down to the creek and there was a monster.”

I heard him exhale through his nose, a snort like a hog —
short, final. “No y'didn't,” comes after, like the first time I told him
about—

“It hurts, Daddy,” I say, clutching at my stomach, and it’s not
a lie. It's nota lie.

“Annie,” he says, “we have to keep on. For your mother, ‘til
she gets better.”

I dip my chin. “Yeah,” and it comes out small like a sigh.

“So go down and help your cousin,” he says, shifting a little
on the bed, already looking around for his tobacco.

So I go down to the dark of the basement, the creeks in my
heart dry, the monster at the bottom surely starved.

I step out the next day. I get told not to go too far. But I keep
walking, and walking, and walking ‘til I get to the creek. | thought

maybe I dreamed it, but I always hope I've dreamed the basement
and the Godless things down there. My face feels numb. I can't cry.
Iwon't cry.

I take my shoes off again, a little further away from the wa-
ter this time. It’s early out, so the sun’s not hot enough to make the
ground burn me like yesterday. I'm shaking and I don’t know what
I'm doing here, but I can’t not look. I hurt. I need a distraction, an
ointment for the pain.

I lean down ~ it hurts when I do that — and touch my finger-
tips to the water.

Something comes slithering over to me.

“Jesus!” I yelp.

What are you doing here, my child?

A mouthless voice sounds out in my mind, like the radio's
wired right into my head. All the hairs on my arms stand up, and
there's sweat in places | didn't even know I had. “I...” [ trail off, trying
not to flinch when a tendril softly jabs at me before retreating.

Child, you have returned here for a second day. What
are you doing here?

I don’t know what makes me answer the creature. I guess
I'm still disbelieving. I guess I finally feel like I have someone to talk
to — what a thought! I squash down some of them hysterics when
they reach me. “I came to find you,” I finally say. My scalp itches in
the heat; I forgot my hat.

Why? comes that voice again. Tell me why.

I clutch at my stomach unconsciously. “I guess | wanted to
know whether you were real,” I say, and it comes out like a croak.
Frog in my throat? I'm not sure why.

I can’t see an eye but I can somehow feel one looking at me.
And after a long, long time, it finally speaks.

They do not believe you. A splash of water as another
tentacle lazily makes its way to float upon the surface of the shim-

mering creek. This is not unusual. I have been here before you
and I will be here after you

A shiver goes through me when it says that, but it’s strange
—I don’t feel all that bad. The water is cool on my feet. The wind's in
my hair. Sure, you can fry an egg on my scalp right now with how
hot it is, but it's good to be in the sun, out of the dark of the house.

“Nobody believes me,” I hear myself saying before I can stop
myself.

Are you a liar, child?

My bottom lip trembles. “N-No sir,” comes out before I can
stop it.

Sir?

“Well, y-you’re older than me, so-”

Tam no male. Iam no human

“Sorry...”

A splash. A gentle tap of a tentacle, less shocking this time.
It's almost like this thing is... making me feel better? Or trying to

Do not be sorry, child. There is no need to be sorry.

A week later, and the sun is as hot as it was, if not hotter. I
find it makes it harder to think, and the creek all the more an es-
cape. No matter how long the sun beats down on it, the water is al-
ways cool and clean, like it's inviting me in.

The creature, it's not asking for much, really. It seems to like
our conversation. I find that I do, too.

Tell me the story again.

I kick my feet lazily in the water, making sure not to kick
it. [don't even know if it can get hurt like normal, but I still want to
avoid hurting it if I can.

I know what it's like to be hurt by someone you trust. And I
think we kinda trust each other now.

Iclear my throat. “Once upona time, there wasa girl named
Goldilocks...”

I burst out the basement door. I gasp, I vomit.

I try not to vomit anymore because it means I've gotta clean
itup.

“ANNIE, WHAT'S THAT NOISE?” Daddy shouts down like
he doesn't know, like he doesn't know.

I should answer, yes sir, no sir, it’s nothing, Daddy. Some-
thing in me won't give. I lay on the floor a while instead, with the
dustbunnies and the silverfish, next to my mess.

“There's a monster,” I say after me and the creature have
been quiet a while.

A ripple under the water. Is it I?

“No, no.” I say the next part a little quieter, like someone is
going to jump out of the bushes at me ~ at us~ and say they've been
listening in the whole time. “There's a monster in my basement.”

Tell me of this monster.

I swallow. I get this wave of wanting to sink under the wa-
ter, where it's dark and cold and I can't hear or speak to people no
more. “It’s my cousin,” I say finally. “He's staying a while.” A long,
long while.

I too have quarrelled with my kin. It feels like the whole
creek sighs. Now I am the only one left.

I feel another wave of something. “What's that like?” | mum-
ble.

Silence. Still water.

I pick at the lace on my dress. Mama made it out of a flour
sack. It’s too small for me now. I wish she'd taught me how to sew

better before she went so far away from us.

I know now what it means to be truly alone. To know
that one day, when the rivers run dry, when Earth is collaps-
ing as a dying star, there will be no-one but I to witness it.

“Th-that’s blasphemy.” I don’t know what makes me say it.
I cuss, I spit sometimes. And the family hasn't been to Church in a
long, long while

I bow to no God. There's something final about the way it
says that, so I let everything go quiet a while.

“I madea friend, Mama,” I say, setting the porridge down on
the nightstand. I know I won't get nothing from her, but Daddy says
it’s important to try.

She looks so... not real, lying there. She's thin, but not just
thin. She's waxy, too, and has these weird bumps and lines all on her
skin. I don’t like Sleeping Beauty — nothing's pretty about living like
this, Even if she’s still pretty. She's Mama, she'll always be pretty, I
reach for the spoon, trying to make sure my hands don't shake none.

Daddy's gone somewhere. Sherman's out on the porch.

“They listen to me,” I go on to say as I try to feed Mama.
“They really listen. I guess... I didn’t realise I needed it so much.” |
blow on the spoonful of porridge to cool it down some. “Maybe it's
like with the Catholics. They need to get it all out.”

I swallow. “My friend knows all these things,” I went on, “but
I can teach ‘em things too. It makes me feel smart,” I say, laughing.
“Imagine that. Annie, smart.”

I want her to laugh with me, but she just keeps on breathing
those shallow breaths.

I wish, I wish so hard sometimes that I could go to school,
but I can't.

When she's taken some porridge, I know it's time for me to

go. I get all teary-eyed if I'm in here too long and Daddy says Mama
wouldn't wanna see me cry. “I'll see about getting some broth up
later,” I say, running my hands over my sack skirt. It'll be thin broth,
but better than nothing, I guess.

Whistling. A smooth, rich sound like too much chocolate.
I tense up all over because | just know it’s coming from the porch
outside. It aches, inside me, like it’s reminding me of what might
come my way.

My hand thrusts out and I stuff a spoon full of porridge into
my mouth. I made it too sweet. There's porridge lumps already sit-
ting there in my throat, and the tears are coming out before I can
stop it.

“[ love you Mama,” I say with sticky gums.

The sun is setting, child.
“| don’t wanna go home...”
You still quarrel?

“He hurts me.”

How does it hurt?

So I tell ‘em.

Abomination

That's what it says to me. Fire and brimstone. I shiver and
shake like I have a fever, but then a milky white eye bubbles up from
the water and I can feel that it's fixed on me. It reminds me of eggs.

Not you. You are not the abomination, child.

So I calm some after that, after seeing its eye

‘There’s a new preacher in town ~ I know ‘cause I can hear

the singing and it hurts! That thing inside me, that thing that lets
me know I'm dirty and wrong and no good, it hurts more than ever
when I hear sweet voices on the summer breeze.

I feel like I'm not worthy of the wind touching my skin to-
day.

But it doesn't matter, ‘cause I'm on my way down to the
creek. Sherman didn’t want me to go, so Daddy didn't want me to
go, so Mama didn't want me to go, some kind of sad puppet with
Daddy and Sherman on either side of her, pulling on her strings.
“She wouldn't want you to go.” I pinch my skin. What do you know
about what Mama wants, Daddy? She don't speak none, not even to
me.

But maybe... Maybe that’s marriage.

Would Sherman marry me? The thought makes me want
to die.

The singing starts to fade away as I get further off the path.
Maybe the travelling preacher will pull up to our door and knock
while I'm out. Maybe a preacher can save my cousin. Abomination.
Abomination. Abomination. The word rattles around my head like
a bucket of feed.

Ikick a twig across the ground and it splinters.

Hell, maybe we're both just mixed up inside. Maybe this is
how it’s supposed to be, maybe it's just another way a woman takes
care of the house, the people inside the house—

“What're you doing here?”

So my whole body braces for a hurricane.

“Hey.” A gentle voice, a hand on my neck. “Why’re you out
here, Annie?”

I can't stop shaking, because I thought I could accept it but
— I'm sick. He's sick. We're both Damned and I never want him to
touch me ever again, even with kindness.

“Answer me.” His grip on my neck gets stronger. I don’t

turn around, can’t turn around.

“Sherman,” I gasp out.

“You have to come home with me now. You have to be a
good to me.”

I feel it in my stomach, I'm gonna vomit, I'm gonna...

Scalding piss runs down my leg like a river and I can feel
him sighing, stepping. “...Just a little girl.”

And for some reason only God knows, that's what does it.

“LEAVE ME ALONE!” I'm crying. I pull, and I kick and I
shake him free but he just snarls like an animal or something and
kicks my behind. It hurts. I fall to the ground, making my own an-
imal noises, please, please, Oh God, oh God like someone's died,
maybe I’ve died and this is it—

“You're coming home with me, where you belong,” he says
and he seethes with it like there's fire behind his eyes. Fire and brim-
stone. He lunges towards my foot, a sopping wet and stinking shoe
coming off in his hands before he grabs hold of my ankle. This feels
like a death, I'm sure now.

One last gasp ~ I flop about like a catfish and wriggle myself
free.

He's screaming something but I'm crawling, my other shoe
coming off as I go, until I'm running, my soles burning on the mid-
day ground.

My ears are ringing. I can hear the cry of my father. The
sobs trapped in Mama's chest. My thighs are wet. I see a flash of
blue. I see some kind of freedom.

“Lonce was lost, but now am found...”

And I jump.

We feel better, now we're one.
It was hard at first. To move in one body, to flow as one be-

ing. At least we could eat as one. Sharing a meal isan important part
of our bond. We taught each other the ritual of it.

Tiny little man. The way he bleated to defile one last time
was nothing short of repellent. But his guts exploded pleasantly. He
painted the ground like the heavens. The smell in the heat sung to
the flies but he was ours to enjoy.

We made it last. Our arms reached inside his dark and
mordant places and pulled out treasure troves of his vessel. Prolapse
after prolapse. Symphonies of sphincters. Sweet meat.

We will never go back to that dark house. We will consume
it, rot and all. We will never be touched again; one flesh, as it should
be.

We will speak without touch, without lips to form words.
We want for nothing in this way. We will not be violated, not even by
each other. And when the world collapses as a dying star, we will see
it with our own eyes and know that we face this end together — and
it is ending. One moment ata time.

But until then?

Conversations.

Conversations.

Askin’ Wayne :

ast year, my son (“Patrick”) has

a become close friends with a classmate,
> and our families now spend a fair bit of
Br time together. We're atheists, while they're
i ~ devoutly Christian, something we've always
@ tried to navigate fully. When I men

=" tioned we weren't religious, they invited us to
church. I declined politely, but the invitations haven't stopped.

Recently, the parents invited Patrick to Easter service, followed by
Easter brunch at their home. As always, Patrick is excited to spend
more time with his friend, but we've made our beliefs (or lack
thereof) very clear and I feel this invitation is both an overstep and
a subtle way to manipulate our son. My husband is approaching the

issue in good faith and claims I may be overreacting.

I don't want to create tension or affect our children’s friendship,
but I'm uncomfortable with the repeated invitations and religious
framing. Am I right tobe worried that they're trying to indoctrinate
Patrick? Even if they're not, how can I clearly set boundaries with
out seeming dismissive or disrespectful of their be —OH WE
OF LITTLE FAITH

In the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary, you've
proudly and willfully chosen to deny the existence of a meta-
physical reality. While it’s likely because you and your family
are a pack of gormless dullards — you are writing to an advice
column, after all — it’s a principled stance to take in a world
saturated with the evidence of demiurge’s divine design: the
Scrub Daddy. The Mister Clean Magic Eraser. Scotchgard.
Tell me: in a godless world, would these products even exist?
Would they be easily available at your local Harris Teeter?
Would Williams Thomas Harris and L. Teeter have even met?

PAID ADVERTISEMENT

It’s clear you have no interest in the teleology of affordable,
friendly supermarket chains and other such weighty philo-
sophical concerns, and | don’t blame you. Under no circum-
stances should a child be raised to believe their dying grand-
parents will amount to anything but a few ounces of soot ina
brass pot, or that their escaped Weimaraner will be waiting for
them in some Mickey Mouse version of heaven. In fact, you
can tell them their Uncle Wayne has been to the realm where
Mister Mouse keeps his captured souls, and it’s no heaven!
(They're ensorcelled within a massive obsidian obelisk stored
deep under Orlando. If you get the chance to see it, try to find
the hidden Mickey!)

Are you familiar with the phrase “know your enemy"? Coined
by right-wing philosopher Zack de la Rocha in his song of the
same name, it means to know and understand your enemy or
opponent. You'll do well by finding out which branch of this
Jewish cannibal cult these people belong to. You might be sur-
prised to learn there are as many as five branches of Christi-
anity: Catholics, Mormons, Pentecostals, Unificationists, and
Osmonds.

While these all may appear to be afflicted with the same kind
of madness, you'd be surprised at some of the differences!
Catholics are burdened with ever-present guilt over not eat-
ing enough fish. Mormons can only bathe in large communal
cisterns underneath their gilded temples. Pentecostals cover
themselves in snakes to symbolize their savior's scaled phal-
lus, while acolytes of the Unification church embody Jesus of
Nazareth penis through their impressive stockade of assault
rifles. The Osmonds are notorious for protesting the funerals
of veterans and homosexuals.

THESCRUB MOTHER NOURISHES
THE SCRUB FATHER TEACHES

Regardless, all those who adhere to Jesus's teachings are dan-
gerous, deeply unstable lunatics and should be approached
with caution.

“Easter” itself is one of their most unsettling traditions: follow-
ers celebrate the brutal state murder of their Christ figure (one
coincidentally named “Jesus Christ") and his subsequent res-
urrection by a cadre of necromancers using symbols appro-
priated from pagan fertility rituals, such as rabbits, eggs, and
Cadbury brand créme. In their sickening corruption of Os-
tara, families impregnate the youngest female (of child-bear-
ing age) in the hope that a new Christ figure will pop out
around late December. Micro-cults typically form around
these “Christmas babies,” leading to smaller, more extreme
sects like the Presbyterians and Hobby Lobby. It’s in this tradi-
tion that ‘indoctrination’ becomes ‘opportunity.’

I warmly encourage you to allow Patrick to join their yearly
Easter orgies. Even if his
seeds aren't currently
ready for fruiting, you're
opening yourself up to
the golden _ possibility
that these maniacs would
prefer to avoid inbreed-
ing and allow the next
Church of the Nazarene,
Shepherd's Rod, or mul-
tiplatnium rock-and-roll
sensation (DC Talk, Creed,
Lamb of God) to blossom
from your child's loins.

“Chiistianity ROCKS!

(OUR SPONSORS ARE THE ONLY
OPTION FOR SALVATION AND ETERNAL LIFE

A fair warning: Christians will attempt to drown him asa part
of their initiation ritual, so I'd advise signing him up for swim
lessons at the local YMCA to build lung strength. If he sur-
vives, you'll have a clear path to giving him the greatest gift a
parent could give: a group of gullible dolts to provide him and
his offspring with adoration, devotion, and free labor. (Also,
since your grandchild's birthday will be on and around Christ-
mas, you'll save money on gifts!)

If you'd rather establish safe and stable boundaries, | return
to the timeless wit and wisdom of Zack de la Rocha: “Rally
‘round the family with a pocket full of shells.” With a little in-
genuity (anda trip to ACE Hardware), a pocketful of 10-gauge
buckshot shells can yield a surprising number of improvised
landmines. Nothing brings a family together like a fun craft-
ing project!

Whichever path you choose, be proud of yourself: you've
made the correct decision to raise your child with no moral
or metaphysical framework. As the father of a dangerous cult
leader or a middle manager at a Dupont plant, Patrick will be
unencumbered by shame as he exploits and imposes his will
on others. There's no greater gift a parent could give.

Hynes no

721 Me for keeping war seie® tant

20% OFF DELAWARE SHRIMP AT HARRIS TEETER
WITH PURCHASE OF WAXEN

WAXEN is a quarterly, cooperative effort. All of our
contributors are compensated and retain the rights to
their work.

Need advice? Send your darkest dilemmas to
waxenwayne@gmail.com.

Find us at waxen.org and @readwaxen.

To our friend 'R.'—

No, we cannot help.

You do not need help.

Do not panic. It soon will bloom.

Dear Editor,

Ithink they're following me. I checked my schedule after clock-
ing into work last week and the calendar print-out had these
weird symbols in each box. Even the names were messed up. It
was a bunch of garbled up text, like someone rolled around on
the keyboard. [Ed; see next page.]

I tore it off the bulletin board, went to my manager and shoved
it in his hands and said “what the fuck is this?”

He looked at it for a minute and handed it back. “What are you
talking about"?

All the symbols were gone. It just looked normal. I didn’t say
anything else to him, I just walked away and started doing my
thing.

I really, really wanted to just...forget about it, but for some rea-
son I took it home with me that night. I threw it on the kitchen
table next to a stack of old mail, had a beer or two and went
to bed. When I woke up the next morning there was a piece
of paper sitting on my bedside table. It wasn’t there the night
before. Like, at all. It looked like someone scribbled on it, but
when I looked at it closer it was a message. It said “look again”.

I freaked the fuck out, ran to the kitchen table and looked at
the schedule. I couldn't fucking believe it. The symbols were
back, the names were messed up, but this time there was some-
thing else. Someone wrote a bunch of instructions on it and
drew the same seal from what I sent you last time.

I don't know what to do. I thought sharing this stuff with you
would make it better, but I think it made everything worse.
Can you help me?

—R.

Sbhit Scljhwyui;le

sbydy

mybhdyt

toigsdy

rbjhuol huhwy

| hoiwost7

v

| nzokkwh”
| hwoios908y32

yui hgjkkoa,
fo 27609

%

ng
Zt
sof
-)

Hes

<

€ X we P

a

Prepare war Max Borns
Po pranaqZownn ExcR(c\Se5|

fromm AVE bese OF ¥:
& ene Rashes OF
Pra Manteo!
s_ to M4 gene
Place

1A MATE HAI

N. Once done , bury Xe
We 1 wucered Wee a Colt

artuagle of
for oO Mw
out SPIRE Xo You!
fonqve THH,T
ATE. Det

waecgt tofwsdy

4
va | 4g
ya
GS 6

v

re

He Penlogram EKA gONVy, Followed by tha Middle Pillar .
Ny SSeee oes Ricestiy cline eon) Wea a Ads\vc
movin. ne yer Cissy Your Tentacle iment He brent: bec 8
LOE ORE San o& MUR SYMONS OFS WOR A GPE rondo hl Clrontin
Ee Re emer ih mintees Each card Shashi Feel tne (A Deine, own
Sau Ha PEACL Ovk OS Gour madi ON Xo” he
symbol 10 Aver, SeNh ie \ v
& aes sigh Oh SAENCE . SyAC WAR NLA Kero’ Symbol -

pectin every doy

BEV AND BOB WOULD LIKE TO THANK WAXEN’S CONTRIBUTORS FOR THE OPPOR.
TUNITY TO SHARE THEIR WONDROUS AND FRIGHTENING GIFTS WITH THE WORLD:

Niki Bonneau is a tattoo artist and painter from Hinton, Alberta. Her dark,
surreal work is influenced by real-life experiences and human connection.
Find more of her work on Instagram at @isolationtattoo.

John Jeremiah Lee is a Cambodian-American writer; New Revelations’ is his
first published piece. He enjoys cycling and going to the beach

Blessing us again with his considerable talents as an artist and zine-maker,
‘Tanmoy Kayesen is a Mumbai-based creator who you should certainly follow
on Instagram (@the_cray_esen) and Reddit (r/tanmoykayesen),

Mark Towse is an English author based in Australia. If you think it's too late

to start writing, he kicked off his career at forty-five and currently boasts over

200 anthology credits, fifteen novellas, and three novels. His latest, The Sound
of Suffering, is an Amazon bestseller.

Vermont’ Elle Burnett is a writer and historian whose interests lie in the in-

tersections between place, social memory, and the layers of asbestos packed

between. She's been featured on the Studio Flash Fiction Podcast and you can
find her and her two cats on Instagram (@skelet.elle).

Dark is a self-taught Brazilian artist whose manga-inspired, black-and-white
horror illustrations depict a bevy of strange, dark, and grotesque female fig-
ures, Find her on Instagram at @darkningarts.

A lifelong appreciator of the weird, writer/illustrator Marigold Rowell resides

in its stateside capital, Los Angeles. Her stories have appeared in publications

such as Gnome and Bone, The Horror Zine, and Suffering the Other. You can
find more of her work at marigoldrowell.carrd.co,

Daniel Roop’s speculative work received an Honorable Mention in Best Hor-

ror of the Year Vol. 17, and has been featured in publications including Apex

Magazine and Pseudopod. "The Whitworth Shearing’ will conclude in our
next volume,

Brad Kopman is a dark surrealist based out of Philadelphia. His illustrations

and paintings draw from the brackish depths of the collective unconscious

and can be found on his Instagram (@bfkworks) and purchased on his Etsy
shop (BFKWorks). Good luck deciding which prints to buy.

Hailing froma 130-year old farmhouse in North Carolina, Michelle St. James

isan author and artist whose nightmarish work has been featured on the cov-

er of more publications than we can list. Her art and stories can be found at
stjames-art.com and shellstjames.com,

If you find yourself in the Midlands of England, try to catch a show by writer

and performance poet Laura Jane Round. You might also try her website (lau-

rajaneround.co.uk) and Instagram (@laurajaneroundwriter) if you'd prefer
to save on airfare,